


Angiosperm

by siegeofangels



Category: Letterkenny (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 22:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11323422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siegeofangels/pseuds/siegeofangels
Summary: You're playing hide the zucchini with your best friend out behind the produce stand one day.Thing is, you don't even grow zucchini.





	Angiosperm

You're playing hide the zucchini with your best friend out behind the produce stand one day. 

Thing is, you don't even grow zucchini. 

*

“Anyone ever tell you you fuck like you fight?” says Daryl, which is a hell of a thing to drop on a man when he's balls-deep. 

Wayne's hips stutter. “Well, that is a hell of a thing to drop on a man when he's balls-deep; would you like to elucidate?” 

Daryl sighs, a satisfied fuckweed sigh that settles Wayne back into his rhythm. “E-loosen up is what I mean, you fight hard and fast and you're dicking me the same, it's not like we got somewhere to be.” 

Wayne ponders this. The fuckweed has just started blooming, covering their town with plant jizz and making everybody in Letterkenny want to blow their own load. Should be a day or two before it lets up, a good rainstorm notwithstanding. And chafing is nobody’s friend.

“Taken into consideration,” Wayne says. He slows his pace a hair and aims a bit more north-northwesterly.

“You always--ah!--are considerate,” says Daryl. 

“Consider this,” Wayne says. “Ain't never seen you in a fight, what kind of fucking does that foretell?” 

Daryl smiles, hay in his hair, flush spread down his chest. He always looks good to Wayne but when the fuckweed blooms he looks _good_ , looks like something Wayne wants to surround and surround himself with, crawl right into and hold tight. 

“Consider,” says Daryl. “Not much of a fighter, always is my mouth that gets me in trouble.”

Oh is it. 

Daryl keeps one hand clutching at the sparse grass and claws the other down Wayne's back, side, hip, asscheek. He digs his fingertips into the muscle there; Wayne digs the toes of his boots into the dirt. 

“Round two,” Daryl proposes: “Eat you out till you ask for it. You're not gonna be the only one plays Hide the Zucchini. You know when it's a bumper crop you gotta share that shit around.”

“Put your tongue up my asshole you're definitely sharing shit,” Wayne says on autopilot, even though a) he's clean and showered fresh every morning, point of pride; and b) the thought of Daryl holding him down and making his vocalizations echo across the fields makes him have to stop and take a breath. 

“You love it,” Daryl says. 

“I love--” Wayne starts, then cuts himself off before he can himself get into trouble. He ducks his head. Fucks in, north-northwesterly, and watches sweat drip off his nose to mingle with the sweat and the dust and the blush on Daryl’s chest. 

He gets one hand down to jerk Daryl, because Wayne really is built for hard and fast and it's just polite not to get your own rocks off before you rock the socks off your buddy. 

Daryl makes a noise, and screws his face up as the wind kicks up again. A fresh gust of fuckweed pollen hits them both, and that's the last of coherent words for a while. 

*

The only thing that's refractoring is the sunlight through the spray as they take long drinks straight from the hose, cocks hard and insistent. Wayne doesn't bother fastening his jeans, just pulls his shirt off so they can mop off a little as they lick wellwater from each other's mouths. Daryl tastes like stone and the cold iron of the well. It's almost as satisfying as fucking but in the end the pull of the pollen drags them away. 

Daryl gets him bent over the fence, elbows braced against the top rail. Kicks his feet further apart. 

“My ass is gonna sunburn waiting for you,” Wayne tells him, and Daryl plants both hands on said ass. 

“Wonder if I can give you a tan line,” Daryl says, dropping to his knees, and leans in. 

Some time later, Wayne chokes out, “Zooming and zigzagging me to--zenith, zing your zipper and--” he gasps--”get that zucchini in the zone.” 

Daryl withdraws his mouth, leaves two fingers inside, pressing on that spot that's like a breath full of pollen to Wayne the way it's making electricity crawl along his nerves. There’re dark splotches in the dirt where he's drooled, where he's been dripping sweat and fluid.

When Daryl does finally slide into him it feels like the wellwater, like a storm breaking, like the kick of a rifle. He can't do anything but listen to the insects buzz and relax into the movement and let his mind drift on a cloud of fuckweed pollen. Darryl’s set up a smooth rolling pace that's getting him right where he lives. 

“A-1, my friend,” Wayne admits, “I could ride that all day.” 

“Could,” Daryl says. “Might not have to.” He digs the fingers of one hand into Wayne's hair and pulls his head up. “Look.” 

The first thing he can see is the long face of a horse, staring at them from across the field. “Brandy?” Wayne says, confused. He really hopes horse-fucking is not in the plan. 

“Above Brandy, dumbass,” Daryl says, slapping his ass which, Wayne fears, is both a mite sunburned and way too eager for another slap. 

Above--behind, really, beyond the horse is the beautiful dark rolling majesty of a stormcloud, unfurling the promise of blessed relief from the fuckweed. 

“Finish me off before it gets here, then,” Wayne says, and Daryl thrusts hard. 

“I knew you’d be good in a fight,” Wayne says to the weeds and the dust and the flies. “Tongue gets you in trouble but you know where to hit to finish things off.” 

And Daryl does, he's got just the right angle that's gonna make Wayne shoot, spill all over the fence rail and the gray Ontario dirt. 

He finishes inside him with a low moan, almost lost in the rumble of thunder coming in from the west. 

And the storm is rolling in but it isn't there yet, so Wayne pulls Daryl down into the dust, his ass in the pebbles. Kisses him until the first raindrops hit, kisses him until the water sluices over them and cleans the air. 

Daryl lifts his head. He's soaked and the pale parts of his body are glowing in the gloom. “You back to normal?” 

Wayne can't stop staring at his mouth. He feels like himself but also like he might never be himself again, like he needs Daryl touching him in a way that's entirely unrelated to _Ambrosia suspirium _. He licks his lips, tastes rainwater and salt and Daryl. “Reckon so.”__

__Daryl is looking at his mouth and his hands are still on Wayne's skin, grinding the mud in. “Same tomorrow?”_ _

__The fuckweed’s just going to come up again tomorrow and Wayne can't for the heady humid air. For now, the rain is slick under his touch as Wayne gets a hand into Daryl's disgusting hair to pull him down again. “Reckon so.”_ _


End file.
